The Order of Nature

by Josh Scheinert

  “My child,” she said to him.

  “Hello Mother,” he responded softly.

  Before she could speak again, John was thrusting onions into her hands.

  “Here, this is what they had at that market. I don’t know from choosing them. It was much easier pulling them out of the ground.”

  “Because you always grew onions,” Grace teased. “Your father is not yet adjusted to our new home, with all its concrete. But do not worry, he will adapt. Right, John?”

  “Of course,” his father said, oblivious to his wife’s mockery.

  “Come, Thomas,” his mother beckoned. “You can come and help me in the kitchen if you wish. The food is nearly ready.”

  “Sure.”

  Throughout his childhood, Grace had been Thomas’s protector. Something he came to know with time. It wasn’t always easy being Sheriff’s younger brother. Brash and bombastic, he was assertive and demanding. Their relationship was never close, or particularly friendly. Sheriff always preferred for Thomas to learn the hard way, like he had.

  As he started doing better at school than Sheriff, Thomas, who was never skilled at fixing things, began noticing his bicycle chain breaking more frequently, or door hinges coming off in the bedroom he shared with his brother. Each time Thomas failed to fix something, Sheriff was always there, able and boasting that not all of life’s lessons and skills could be learned at school. When Thomas learned from his parents how Sheriff made his money in Banjul, it didn’t surprise him at all. Smuggling and trading in the black market suited Sheriff’s personality.

  Now, in his brother’s living room, he could feel that his mother once again sensed Thomas’s vulnerability and sought to bring him closer to her. When they were children she tried to be subtle. Sometimes at night, pretending to sleep, he heard her scolding Sheriff or telling John not to be so tough on him.

  Sheriff, I know you are the one who broke his bike. I know you want to make him to be tough like you. But not everyone is like you. Remember that.

  It brought Thomas a measure of comfort knowing his mother stood up for him. Still, each time she did so, it was a reminder that he didn’t conform to their expectations. Not everyone is like you meant not everyone is tough; not every man is strong like a man should be.

  As he held out dishes for his mother to heap the benachin and yassa into, John and Sheriff were sitting at the table, speaking about different work opportunities – refurbished stereo systems, a special tint cutting machine brought in from Senegal. Sheriff emphasized to his father that in Banjul, minivans, not motorbikes, proved the most lucrative vehicle to service.

  “Like the kind Thomas takes from Serrekunda. Tell him, brother, that the road is filled with minibuses more than motorbikes.”

  “It’s true,” Thomas said.

  He and his mother brought the food to the table. Besides benachin and yassa, there was another plate of rice, a loaf of bread, and, strangely, a plate of fresh cucumbers and tomatoes.

  “I saw it in a restaurant,” Grace said. “I thought we would try it since we live in the city.”

  There were also bottles of Julbrew and soda. Between all the food and drink and the plates and glasses, there was barely any room. They all reached quickly for the food, building heaping piles on their plates. Sheriff grabbed two bottles of beer, handing one to his father and keeping the other for himself. Before taking his first drink he turned to Thomas.

  “Did you want a beer, brother? Do you drink them?”

  On its surface, Sheriff’s face was expressionless, benign. Underneath, however, Thomas pictured his brother beaming. With his heart starting to beat faster, his nerves rising, he calmly finished the food in his mouth before answering.

  “I do drink, sometimes. But now I do not feel like it. Thank you, Sheriff.” He reached for a soda.

  The table felt small and overcrowded, especially as Sheriff’s presence loomed large, sucking up the air around them. He and John kept speaking about work, leaving Thomas to his plate of food.

  Thomas could see his mother watching him as her eyes moved back and forth from her husband and elder son back to him. There was nothing she could do. Sheriff commanded the conversation. John, as Thomas predicted, saw Sheriff as the expert.

  “Sometimes, there is too much work,” Sheriff proclaimed. “We have a hard time finding good people, people we can trust to do the work good.”

  Well, Thomas thought to himself. Do the work well.

  “I don’t understand why you don’t come and work with your brother,” John announced. “Can’t you hear him? He says he needs good people to help him. You should help your brother, and in the process, you will get a good job.”

  The inviting indifference on Sheriff’s face intimated he and his father had spoken about this before, or at least Sheriff hinted at this, subtly planting the prospect in his father’s head. It was an idea with Sheriff’s influence all over it. Just like at home, it honed in on Sheriff’s success and Thomas’s struggle, Sheriff’s strength and Thomas’s weakness.

  Thomas could barely betray his emotions. He tried desperately to tame what he felt was an expression of frustration. When he didn’t immediately react, his father kept speaking as Thomas grew angry towards Sheriff.

  “Why are you working in that hotel? All day working and doing things for toubabs. Your brother is working to help Gambian people. He has no toubab customers.”

  “John!” Grace interjected. She looked unimpressed as her husband lectured on.

  Turning to his wife, John continued: “But our son can work with his brother, make more money so he can live comfortably. Why should he have to worry about picking up chicken bones after people who don’t know him or understand him. He should work with his family.”

  Thomas’s parents looked at each other and then at him. His father’s eyes conveyed earnestness. He thought he was being a good father, helping his son who he felt might be going astray. Thomas wanted to tell him he didn’t pick up chicken bones. He was a bartender, promoted because of skill and affability. That, however, only scratched the surface. On a deeper level, Thomas wished his family knew that he was far further from them than they could imagine. He wished he could tell them this, if only so they’d leave him alone. It was impossible, though. How do you communicate such things? How do you reveal secrets to people for whom the truth can be anathema?

  Thomas sat silently, thinking to himself how he could never tell them why, now especially, he had to keep working at the hotel. He could not tell them how one day not that long ago, while Thomas was at work, a boy came. Well, not a boy, a young man. He had this smile, the kind of smile that when directed at you, you felt its warmth. It was real and gentle and reassuring – one that could make worries momentarily disappear. It’s what won Thomas over before he even knew this young man’s name. He wanted someone to smile at him that way.

  That young man kept returning to the hotel. With each week their connection grew, until finally, only the other week, the two of them cemented it. Thomas didn’t know what would happen next. All he knew was that the young man, Andrew was his name, would come back to the hotel the next week, and hopefully the week after that, and for many more weeks. Because of this, Thomas couldn’t go to work with his brother. He needed to be at the hotel when Andrew returned. He needed to make sure Andrew saw him, that he didn’t wonder where he disappeared to, and if he would ever come back.

  Looking across a small table that suddenly started to seem smaller, Thomas caught his brother staring at him.

  “What?” Sheriff proclaimed brashly. “You don’t want to come work with your big brother?” His tone was suggestive, confirming to Thomas his brother knew he didn’t want to work with him. Sheriff sensed his discomfort, and was trying to make him more uncomfortable. “Together like when we were younger. And there is space for you here. So you don’t have to live in Serrekunda.”

  The three of them were now looking at him. Thomas’s hands were under the table, on top of his knees. He felt his
palms sweating.

  “It is a kind offer, Sheriff. But I should decline, at least for now.” He rushed the last part in. A peace offering. “They are good to me where I work. They respect me and tell me I do a good job, and I like working there. It is a pretty place, very peaceful. I don’t want anyone to be angry, or to not understand.” He spoke softly, but with resolve. “I’m trying something different now. Tourism is an important industry. There is opportunity in it. I should like to keep trying, for now.”

  Though he often projected a sense of obliviousness, Mr. Jalloh had been particularly warm and welcoming to Andrew. They spent the first few months working in very close quarters before the students arrived. Andrew observed an over-worked and under-resourced man who had every excuse to complain but rarely did. Through it all, with an almost constant look of bewilderment projecting through his narrow glasses, he never failed to ensure that Andrew had settled comfortably.

  It took some time for him to finally get organized, but eventually Mr. Jalloh had Andrew over for a promised Gambian feast.

  “It’s time to fatten you up!” he jovially proclaimed. “Otherwise your parents will think food in The Gambia is not delicious.”

  Andrew was not sure what to expect. He was curious to see Mr. Jalloh outside of school. What did his home look like, how was he with his wives? Mr. Jalloh greeted him with his usual excited smile. He was dressed in a smart-looking orange and brown dashiki Andrew hadn’t seen him wear before. He was also barefoot. Led quickly through the courtyard into the home, they went straight into the kitchen. The weak air conditioning was overpowered by all the heat from the cooking and Andrew was confronted with smells he did not recognize. A saucepan sizzled as Andrew tried peering at the food being prepared, trying to detect something familiar. Two women in aprons, standing over large pots cooking on the stove, turned to greet him. He stood face to face with both of Mr. Jalloh’s wives. Unsure of how to act, he tried desperately to look at both equally after smiling at them in the order they were introduced. Everyone laughed when Andrew asked how many people were coming to eat all the food.

  “No, it will be just us. I told my wives our new volunteer is coming and he does not know authentic Gambian food yet. They have both been working all day to make sure you can try everything, and at least two kinds. There are dishes from all of West Africa that we have prepared for you. We have beef domoda and chicken domoda. There is fish yassa and chicken yassa. The benachin is also chicken and fish. And we have made pepeh for you.”

  Andrew was becoming more familiar with various Gambian dishes. Peanut-based domoda and tomato-based yassa were his favorites. But pepeh was one he never tried. Even Alex wasn’t sure what was in it. It was some type of stew with cow feet and pepper. It wasn’t one of the dishes he rushed to try.

  Much to Andrew’s pleasant surprise, his polygamous dinner company turned out to be less intimidating than he thought, and certainly less intimidating than the stew, which he dutifully tasted and did his best to finish. It was strange how normal Andrew found a polygamous arrangement to be. Maybe it was because Mr. Jalloh and his wives treated it as normal, which disarmed him. He still felt it wrong and probably exploitative, but... everyone had been so nice and welcoming.

  That night Andrew saw a different side of Mr. Jalloh. Gone was the worry of the workday and the school that would never run properly. Instead, Mr. Jalloh – determined to provide Andrew with a proper and authentic introduction to a Gambian home – projected a sense of pride. He eagerly showed Andrew his home, however modest it may have been. Each dish had to be prepared just right. No ingredient or expense was spared. The generosity of the evening was not lost on Andrew.

  “You must tell your parents that you are well looked after here. That in The Gambia they feed you well,” Mr. Jalloh said as his wives cleared the food.

  “They would be very appreciative of that. And relieved to hear it.”

  As he left the house, carrying several bags of food to take home, Mr. Jalloh stood in the doorway and asked Andrew if he was enjoying himself.

  “It must be a big change for you, from America to here for the first time.”

  “Yeah, it’s certainly been a big change. But a good one. I like it a lot so far.”

  Mr. Jalloh’s smile widened to a size Andrew hadn’t seen before. “That makes me very happy. You see, there are so many misunderstandings about life here. It is not some scary place. You see how beautiful it is, and how it is a friendly welcoming place. We are happy to welcome everyone!”

  “I know. It’s been great.”

  11

  Alex and Liv were heading off to dinner. As usual, they invited Andrew to join. He told them he felt like staying home. He was tired, which was true. The real reason, though, was that he needed to figure out what, if anything, he was going to tell Lindsay. She understood Andrew’s need for reassurance. But he wasn’t sure she’d get Thomas. He wasn’t sure she’d even want to if she could.

  His relationship with his sister had grown more solid over the past months. As Andrew opened up to her, she also opened up to him. They spoke about her relationship challenges, frustration with family and friends, and a growing jealousy of Andrew’s adventurous escape.

  “Maybe I should’ve done something like that.”

  Lindsay should’ve been excited to hear her brother was falling for Thomas. She’d heard so much about his loneliness, about years of school where so many people around him were either coupled or hooking up, and how he had none of that. She knew the one thing crucial to giving him confidence and assurance was to find someone, so he could experience all that brought. And more fundamentally, to believe that those experiences were possible for him.

  He was sitting on his bed under the mosquito net with the fan blowing on him, its white noise disturbing an otherwise tranquil night. He’d been sitting motionless, staring into space for nearly half an hour before he opened his computer and logged into Skype, resolved to tell his sister. She was online.

  After exchanging greetings, he asked if their parents were home.

  “No, they’re out for dinner. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a little crush here,” he started, not wanting to throw it all out at once.

  Lindsay’s face became excited. “Who!”

  “His name’s Thomas.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “At the hotel we hang at on weekends.” Her excited expression began to fade in the short while it took him to answer as she remembered where exactly her brother was.

  “And what’s he doing in the country?”

  “He lives here.”

  She looked puzzled. “He moved there?”

  “No, he was born here.”

  She didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s Gambian.”

  Andrew saw his sister’s face. Either she was trying desperately to keep her facial expressions neutral or the screen froze.

  “Linds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You there?”

  “Yeah. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

  “I know. Neither was I, actually.”

  “Andrew, are you sure this is smart?” She expressed herself in the form of a question, but her opinion was clear.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, attempting to feign innocence.

  “How safe can this be? I’ve been reading more about where you are since you came out. You’re not at home, where even if some people might not like it, they’ll ignore it, or you can stay out of their way. Some pretty disturbing things have been said by the government, by the president even!”

  She was angry, in a protective kind of way. “You’re not asking for trouble? And how do you know he can be trusted, that he’s not off telling someone who’s going to tell someone who’s going to tell someone?”

  “Because, Linds, he has the same interest as I do in making sure this stays a secret.”

  “What’s his name, again?” she asked dismissively.

  “
Thomas,” Andrew answered, angry he had to remind her.

  “What’s his past like? How much do you know about him? I mean, how do you know he doesn’t have...” she stopped herself.

  “How do you know he doesn’t have what?” Andrew asked. His tone was calm but firm. He knew what she meant to ask, but wanted to hear her actually ask it.

  “Andrew. You know I didn’t mean that.”

  “Mean what?” he questioned her. “AIDS? Is that what you meant to ask?”

  “Andrew, I didn’t mean it that way. You know I’m not that person.”

  “Then why’d you ask the question?”

  Lindsay paused before she answered, her accusatory expression faded as Andrew continued staring straight at her. He hoped his disappointment and anger pierced through the screen. “Because I’m scared something might happen to you. Because you’re my only brother and you’re somewhere I don’t understand, somewhere where I can’t help you if you get into trouble, and somewhere where a lot of fucked up shit happens. And whether that gets exaggerated here or not, or I’m reading the wrong stuff, fucked up shit happens in Africa, and it seems to happen a lot.”

  Fucked up shit happens in Africa. He was unimpressed with her profundity. But there was something to her candor. He thought how a year earlier he probably would’ve said the same thing.

  “What if something happens?” she said, throwing up her arms. “It’s not like you can just call me and I’ll come bail you out.”

  He wanted to still be angry at her. But she was being honest with him and reacted the way she did because he sprung something on her so unexpected. He hated making trouble.

  “I know. We’re being really cautious. So far I only really see him on Friday nights. I’m either sitting at a bar while he’s working or we walk up an empty beach to a place where no one hangs out.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of a relationship.”